Issue 49 / October 2014

26
Bido Lito! October 2014
Reviews
St Vincent (John Johnson)
ST VINCENT
Arc Isis
Harvest Sun @ O2 Academy
“Sometimes when you laugh, you get a look
in your eye and you look like a maniac.” Always
centre of attention and never far from striking
a pose, Annie Clark is the epicentre of chaos
as ST VINCENT. From dragging her finger across
her throat multiple times during Huey Newton
to her refined ponderings on cosmic debt and
nude magazines, the abundance of theatrics is
overwhelming. It’s bamboozling, wonderfully
oddball, and yet it is St Vincent, the ringleader
of this madcap circus, that stops it from tipping
over the edge.
As such, the dramatics of ARC IRIS make the
perfect prelude. Striking in a gold playsuit with
glitter across her forehead, multi-instrumentalist
Jocie Adams strives to bring out the story behind
each song. With only Zach Tenorio Miller backing
her, the songs of her self-titled debut are reduced
to a stripped-back spectacle; often the pair face
each other at opposite pianos, taking in their
absorbing dream pop. Though it occasionally
falters, it is enchanting at its best, and when
both musicians whip out clarinets for a brief
duet, you have to admire their determination to
pull out all the stops.
Suddenly, a burst of static permeates the room
as a Stephen Hawking-esque voice announces
“to maximise enjoyment of your evening, please
refrain from digital capture”, which morphs into
the blistering synths of Rattlesnake. Clark’s
intention is clear: she wants you to indulge in
tonight’s performance just as much as she does.
Clad in a startling top of glittering eyes and
lips, she begins by striking some sharp kung-fu
moves before a roadie runs on with her guitar.
For someone who exudes such a turbulent
personality, the choreography that drives St
Vincent’s performance is incredibly intricate,
creating a performance where the record itself
is only half the picture.
Whatever the mood of the track, Clark
personifies it. On the smooth RnB of I Prefer
Your Love, she lays sprawled across a white altar,
while Prince Johnny ends with an expanded
guitar flourish before slowly collapsing, writhing
onto the platform below her as a choir loop
becomes more and more distorted. It’s savage,
but a bit of pandemonium never spoiled the
broth, especially when it is woven into such a
well-balanced set.
Her devoted backing band often help in
completing the picture. On Birth In Reverse,
her backing singer mimics St Vincent’s actions,
swerving left and back depending on the bar.
But as they are doused in darkness during the
twisted sludge of Marrow, it is evident who the
centre of attention is. Though she often beckons
them forward, the mostly passive crowd are
happy to admire the spectacle, but the frenetic
foot stamping following the first curtain bow of
Bring Me Your Loves shows that this does not
mean they adore her any less.
The sheer scale of St Vincent’s vision is
beautifully unveiled in the live setting, and
the Tulsa native is undoubtedly grateful for her
support; against the deep, mechanical bassline
of Your Lips Are Red, she creates a poetic
description of each player, building them up to
thunderous applause. Suddenly it’s over, and
not a David Byrne collaboration in sight. God
knows what spirit possesses St Vincent, but
when it comes with such mystery, you can’t help
but want some of it.
Jack Graysmark / @ZeppelinG1993
Your Bag?
Catch Loved Ones @ Sefton Park
Palm House on 11th October
LIMF Summer Jams
Sefton Park
The Saturday It's Liverpool stage at LIMF turns
out to be a bit of a mixed bag. The sometimesgimmicky
KAVEZ lead into the inoffensive,
unimaginative, background skiffling of THE
HUMMINGBIRDS. This isn't even enough to raise
a yawn until they finish with a culturally tonedeaf
impersonation of Folsom Prison Blues,
which is a less interesting an interpretation than
those delivered by Cash-covering buskers easily
found on Houghton Street or under Lime Street
Station.
BROKEN MEN follow, a band who don't need
to be a ten-piece: the trumpet, out of their
recently acquired brass section, sounds wimpy,
and the backing singers are overwhelmed by
lead Bob Westhead, whose muscular vocals
boom and reverberate like a self-consciously
hetero Bowie or Lou Reed. The snappy licks and
occasional melodies are good enough to pose
the question: are Broken Men Franz Ferdinand
but actually good? And is that damning with
faint praise?
THE PROBES begin their set with a Syd
Barrett-esque sonic feedback loop that coheres
into an effective funk bassline, whilst the synth
continues to oscillate between digestible pop
and aphotic space rock. Take Hold, their second
track, features simple lyrics delivered in the
confident, portentous manner that has drawn
comparisons with Ian Curtis' similarly foreboding
air. Curtis, however, was perhaps more adept at
holding such an atmosphere without his voice
wavering under the strain, whereas lead singer
Jack Green's is slightly suffering by the third
number.
It's the dissonant synth that separates The
Probes from the rest of the pack, however, and
this continues to waver and screech between
tracks as though we're trying to tune our heads
into a frequency from another universe where
prog never disappeared up its own arse. More
Curtis-parodying lyrics (“Christ won't save you/
Religion won't save you...”) in the last song, Glass
Prison, are almost enough to call that judgement
into question, but even then one can't deny the
strength of The Probes' astronomic project: even
their jangles sound like they're locking the door
and turning out the lights on the universe as
entropic heat death sets in.
SUGARMEN are a breath of fresh air for most
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